


get a grip

by screechfox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Autistic Tim Stoker, Background Autistic Jonathan Sims, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 01, Self-Hatred, Sensory Overload, autistic author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: It’s exhausting, being Tim Stoker.(Autistic Tim, for the prompt "neurodiversity".)
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 66
Kudos: 299
Collections: Tim Stoker Appreciation Week





	get a grip

**Author's Note:**

> here i am, out of my comfort zone: a season 1 hurt/comfort fic full of introspection where the supernatural doesn't get a look-in? heaven forbid
> 
> written for the "neurodiversity" prompt on the [tim stoker appreciation week](https://tim-stoker-appreciation-week.tumblr.com/about)

It’s exhausting, being Tim Stoker.

Tim Stoker is charming and funny and a bit of a flirt; everyone knows that he’s always up for a good time. It’s just strategy: act the class clown, and everyone will be too busy laughing to notice how weird you are. Sure, no one will take you seriously, but isn’t it worth it?

As a coping mechanism, it works alright; being laughed  _ with _ is better than being laughed  _ at. _ But, to tell the truth, laughter has always grated on his nerves like a chord plucked out of tune. When Tim gets in each night, he’s sick of himself, his honey-coated words heavy on his tongue.

It’s expensive, not having a housemate, but it means he doesn’t have to talk to anyone as he collapses onto the sofa, presses his hands to his eyes, and breathes. There’s nothing to focus on but that inhale-exhale and the comfort of the pressure that blocks out the world. His low-grade headache begins to ease as he lets his thoughts spread out into the quiet of his flat.

If he were still a kid, he’d get Danny or one of his parents to brush his hair while he worked through the day’s residual nerves. But he’s not a kid anymore, and Danny—

Tim lets out a shaky breath. One hand shields his eyes as he combs through the strands himself, the pads of his fingers rubbing circles on his scalp. It’s not as good as someone else doing it — or hell, the proper comb he’s misplaced in his bathroom — but it provides an anchor for his thoughts to cling to. His brain fills with white noise, neutral and all-consuming.

The day had just been a lot of little stressors, is the thing. Martin being out sick means the pressure is on Tim and Sasha — it’s not that Jon gives them any more work than normal, but they’re all very aware that the Archives aren’t going to sort themselves.

He’d gone out for a pint with Sasha after work and it had been— fine.

Really. It had been fine.

The Wetherspoons had been crowded and noisy, sure, and the conversation hadn’t really gone anywhere. When Sasha called it a night, Tim couldn’t bring himself to face the Tube; he’d sat on a bench outside and ran his hands over his cheeks in rhythmic motions. It was an hour before he finally dragged himself home, fighting the urge to scream at the other commuters. 

It all feels like an overreaction now, but it’s going to be just as bad tomorrow; if Tim is lucky, Jon will just think he has a hangover and leave it at that. 

With a sigh, he drags himself to his feet and sets about getting ready to sleep. No point staying awake and suffering. Might as well skip to tomorrow and hope to feel a little better.

The commute to the Institute is hellish, and all the quiet of the Archives is cancelled out by the flicker and hum of the fluorescent lights that keep the basement lit.

Sasha glances up as Tim gets in; when he only gives her a wave, her brow furrows in concern. Before she can say anything, though, Jon emerges from his office, as put-together as always. He has a pile of papers cradled in his arms like they’re his newborn child.

“Ah, good morning, Tim.”

He isn’t precisely smiling, but it’s remarkably hard to make Jon show any emotion at all — at least during a work day. His neutral expression is as friendly as he usually gets, and Tim takes all his effort to dredge up a smile in turn.

“I’ve got some statements I need you to look into today. The usual — follow up with the subjects, look into the circumstances that surround them. If you need to get police information, I’m not going to stop you, but check with me before you use Institute funds this time.”

It’s in character for Tim Stoker to answer with nothing but a grin and a thumbs up, so that’s exactly what he does. Jon’s answering frown is remarkably similar to his usual expression, so Tim has to assume that he hasn’t noticed anything amiss.

“Take your time,” Jon says, after a brief moment of consideration. “I don’t believe there’s anything of substance in that pile, so it should be an easy follow-up.”

Tim nods, sliding the files onto his desk so he can go through them in a bit. He watches as Jon hands Sasha her assignments, but he can’t make the sounds of their voices cohere into words.

When Jon retreats into his office, Sasha rolls her chair over to Tim’s desk.

“I can take over the phone calls for today, if you like?”

Tim blinks at her. He doesn’t mind the follow-up calls, usually. Even getting information from the police isn’t too bad; flirting with a purpose is almost more second-nature than being himself.

Sasha’s expression is unreadable. She’s twirling a lock of hair around her finger, but there’s no way of telling if she’s trying to seem casual, or if she’s just fidgety. He really loves her sometimes.

“Thanks,” he manages, when the silence has gone on for too long.

It would take too much energy to summon another grin, but he reaches out and squeezes her hand for just a moment. The pressure of skin on skin is warm and grounding, and his pulse quickens when he has to let go. Tangling his own fingers together just isn’t the same.

They do a quick trade of statements so he gets the ones with an email address, and then they set to their own individual work. He spends the morning writing polite queries to the relevant statement-givers, before starting in on the monotonous work of combing through accident and incident reports in Doncaster in June of 2002. 

All the while, his head aches. 

Even in the Archives, there’s plenty of sound to distract him, to send his thoughts skittering out of order. Sasha’s voice on the phone, cheery and sharp in turn; the buzz of the flickering lights above; the music playing on his headphones as he tries to drown everything else out. 

By the end of the day, Tim feels like he’s going to implode.

He’s usually the first to leave — every five, on the dot — but the idea of bringing attention to himself by standing up is too heavy a weight to bear. He listens to Sasha turn off her laptop, pack up her things, and put on her coat. All he can do is stare blankly at his laptop, as though anything on the screen holds any meaning to him.

Sasha’s hand on his shoulder makes him stir, blinking at her with bleary eyes. She’s— worried, maybe? Her mouth is downturned and her brow is lined, so it’s either concern or anger.

“You’ll be alright?”

Tim nods, hoping that the expression on his face is something close to a smile.

The thing is that Jon’s not exactly subtle, so Tim knows all about the cot in Document Storage. He’d have tried to talk Jon out of it long ago if he thought he’d ever be able to talk that man out of anything. Anyway, the cot sounds perfect now: a small dark room, sound-proofed and with somewhere soft to rest. It’ll only be for an hour or two, just while rush hour clears outside.

Sasha looks at him for a moment longer. He stares down at her hands, so much easier to focus on than every intricacy of her expression, and waits for her to sigh and relent.

“Take care, Tim. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Tim sits there for another ten minutes after she leaves. It’s awful when it gets this bad; he has to work out how to stand up from scratch, put one foot in front of another and get himself somewhere comfortable. It’s only worsened by the idea of Jon judging him, turning that sneer onto Tim and chiding him for his unprofessionalism like he always does with Martin.

As he walks through the corridors, he grounds himself on the texture of the walls below his fingertips. The imperfections in the paint are a pleasant distraction from his own thoughts.

When he gets to Document Storage, he sits down on the cot, thumbs pressed to his temples, and tries to remember how to breathe.

Tim doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he’s pulled from his slumber by a gentle hand on his shoulder, shaking him with hesitant movements.

“Tim?” It’s Jon’s voice, weighted soft and quiet. “Are you alright?”

Tim groans in response. He was happy asleep; already, the jagged edges of the world are reasserting themselves, and he’s not best pleased about that. Covering his eyes with his arm, he turns over in the vague direction of where Jon must be standing.

“Hi, boss,” he manages, his tongue sluggish in his mouth.

“I— I’m sorry, I was just coming in to get some rest, I didn’t realise— are you ill?”

“Mm.” It’s all he can manage, a vague sound of agreement. Close enough.

“You should have called in sick,” Jon snaps. Tim forces himself to move his arm so he can look at the anger on Jon’s face, who’s dark eyes have narrowed with disdain. 

“I, uh.” Tim swallows, his throat dry. “Didn’t want to leave you without—” Tim waves a hand, trying to sum up their whole staffing situation. “Martin and all.”

“Just because Martin has been ought for a fortnight doesn’t mean you — or Sasha — need to take his workload on yourself. God knows the Archives aren’t going anywhere, and you’re no use when you’re not at your best.”

Tim feels his expression crumple at that dismissal; Christ, he should have thought of that, he’s what’s wrong with him— Jon softens as much as he does, the lines of his face easing until he looks his age. He squeezes Tim’s shoulder with the same gentle touch he’d used to wake him.

“Not to say that you didn’t do good work today. I’m recording that batch of statements tomorrow, and— it’ll be much appreciated.”

Oh.

“Thanks, boss.”

Carefully, Tim manoeuvres himself into sitting up. His head aches less than earlier, although the stress of managing the conversation with Jon is starting it up again.

“You felt off-colour this morning, didn’t you?” Jon sits down next to him, keeping a few inches between them. He twists his hands together, staring down at his fingers like they’ve personally wronged him. It’s a habit Tim remembers from their days in Research, from the few times that Jon had to abandon a case with no clear conclusion either way. It’s like— failure, or something.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“I’m sorry. I— I suppose I’m not much of a supervisor.”

“What?” Tim blinks, nudging Jon’s shoulder with his. “It’s fine. Really.”

He fans his hands out in front of him, shaking them a few times. It’s a wonderful feeling, warm relief spreading through his muscles. When he looks back at Jon, Jon is staring at him like he’s seen a unicorn. His mouth is hanging open, and he makes a quiet noise that Tim can’t interpret.

“I noticed something was wrong,” Jon reasons. “But I didn’t follow up. I should have.”

“Don’t stress,” Tim murmurs, well-rehearsed words of comfort falling from his tongue like honey, too sweet for either of their tastes. “My problem, not yours.”

It should be difficult for Tim to reach out and squeeze Jon’s knee, but it’s not. All he wants is for things to be simple, and figuring out how to make sure Jon doesn’t beat himself up for nothing is a step towards the world calming down. 

“Boss. It’s fine.”

“Right.” Jon sighs, shaking his head— but there’s that soft smile on his face. It’s the same one that Tim has only seen a handful of times before, full of such warmth that it’s hard to remember how much of a tyrant he can be as a boss. “Next time, I’ll try to check in with you— if that won’t cause you undue stress?”

“It’s fine,” Tim says again. One hand still rests on Jon’s knee, but he waves the other dismissively. “One of those things.”

Jon nods in agreement, although he doesn’t look best pleased about it. 

“I can call you a taxi? I know when I feel like— well, you don’t look in any state to get the train.” Tim opens his mouth, trying for a sheepish grin — and not quite hitting it if the glare Jon gives him is any indication. “Don’t say you’ll be fine, Tim. If you must, you can even pay me back.”

It takes a few moments for Tim to process that.

“Sure,” Tim says, since Jon is clearly expecting some kind of response.

“Right.” The anxious movement of Jon’s hands goes still. Maybe he’s grateful to have something constructive to do. “I’ll go upstairs and make that call. You— you can stay here, if you want.”

He considers following Jon up into the empty halls of the Institute, but it doesn’t seem worth it compared to staying here in relative comfort, no fluorescent lighting in earshot. He shakes his head, and Jon doesn’t push him.

Tim pats Jon’s knee as he withdraws his hand, laughing at the scowl that it brings to Jon’s face. It’s worth it a few moments later, when a smile curves Jon’s lips all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact, i know exactly when in season 1 this is set. i can even give you an exact date 😄
> 
> i hope you enjoyed reading! fingers crossed i'll get at least one more fic written this week, although i do have three uni assignments to do before the middle of the month which i've barely started, so maybe my priorities are a bit skewed


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